


Miles and the Prancing Pony

by Zoya1416



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Crack, Gay Bar, Gen, Ridiculous, Underage Drinking, everything here is implied and silly, grifters, underage annoying, wormhold accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles Vorkosigan's ship, the Luthien, has broken up in an accident and he has been transported to a world in which a small, humble people live their simple lives in gay bars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miles and the Prancing Pony

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own anything of the Vorkosigan Saga or J.R.R. Tolkein's work. I am playing with them.

Miles Vorkosigan crouched under the wooden table and listened. He'd heard the expression “take a wormhole jump to hell” all his life, and perhaps was what had happened. The Dendarii mercenaries had been routed, the ship had broken up, and all his people were in body pods. They would be safe—all the pods had signals, and other ships of his were coming—but the Luthien wasn't salvageable. He'd gotten the ship cheaply from a third-party purchase—the original owners had retired to live by an ocean, he'd heard. He'd ejected in the last pod, and somehow he was—here. It seemed like a long time since he'd been anywhere. He could hear singing, and it sounded like people were drinking. How would he explain being under the table? 

Just then a curly-haired young man dropped underneath the table and in the confusion he got out the other side. He noticed the odd clothing immediately—seemingly rustic attire except done up in bright colors, tightly fitted, and—he blinked—padded in areas country people like those in the mountains never thought about. And some clothes weren't actually complete—they had open vests—leather? With bare chests, and leggings which were actually see through. Some combined farmer tans and bushy beards with tight cotton shirts and shorts which barely covered the essentials.

A couple near the bar wearing not much of purple and scarlet greeted him: Why, hello there, big fellow! Isn't he cute, Merry? Taller than old Bullroarer by three or four inches, I think.”

“Ummm.” Still dealing with all the confusion, he spent a second reflecting on his unique position as being taller than anyone who wasn't a child. 

“I haven't seen you here before—what's your name?”

Miles had no intention of giving away his name or why he was—wherever here was, and he countered with “So what's your name?”

“Ooh, he wants to take control, doesn't he?” The two fellows tittered to each other. “I am Pippin Took, as in He-Who-Wants-To-Get-Took, and this ugly fellow is Merry Brandybuck, as in Give-Him-A-Brandy-and-He'll-Let-You—oof!"

“Pippin”—the other, Merry, said threateningly—“you know that's MY line, you're not allowed to say it. But, hey fellow, you're really a big one. My family is the tallest in the Shire, and we've never seen anyone as tall as you except for the Big People. You're not interested in all that, are you? Why don't you buy us a drink and we'll go into the back?” 

It seemed like the only option. He had expected, though, a quiet back room of the bar, but in fact they were taking him back to their room. They chattered on. “We can get here only once a month from the Shire, and who wants to leave all the action? Want to tell us your name now?”

Giving up, he said, “I'm Miles.”

The duo, he learned, escaped their stuffy home country, the Shire, “a very stodgy place, too dull for us by worlds, every month." Pippin said, tossing his curly hair. At home they owned a mushroom farm together, but no one knew they stayed at the notorious Prancing Pony sometimes.

“Bit of overkill, don't you think, Merry, dear?” said Pippin. “Old Butterbur might as well have well named it the Pink Triangle!”

“Oh, I think some people are confused by the sign out front—that's a really BIG pony, isn't it? And it's certainly prancing!” They tittered to each other again.

Merry suddenly turned to Miles. “So what can we do for you, Miles? Tell us what you want tonight. We're up for anything, aren't we Pippin?”

My fleet—my fleet back and getting back to base, that's it, he thought. Well, if he'd gotten here by wormhole, maybe he could get out that same way. 

Do you know of any”—thinking fast—“magical ways of getting out of your world? I mean ways that you could take a ship through?”

“Do you mean the Grey Havens? But I thought only the elves went there when they were dying?” said Pippin.

“Probably not it, then. Not any other—unusual ways of leaving?”

“What's it worth to you, honey?” drawled Merry.

Miles was beyond tired of their games. “Oh, you tell me and I pay your price, or you don't tell me and I'll let you know you should have!”

They again looked at each other. “What IS your name, anyway?” said Merry. “Because we have a letter someone left us awhile back for a Miles—what's your last name?

“Naismith.” he growled, and Pippin said excitedly, “Ooh, Ooh, that's him!”Merry reached into his low slashed doublet. Miles was cheered immensely to see the firm printing of Bel Thorne. 

“Bel left this for me? How long ago?”

“Two, maybe three weeks?” 

He was suddenly very tired and hungry, but did not want to go back to the bar, which had started its wet swimsuit contest when they were leaving. “Is there any place else we can something to eat? Besides the bar?” The wooden table under which he'd arrived was in only one tiny, old-fashioned room in the bar. The rest of it was built in an bare metal style, with plenty of atmosphere added. He'd seen the red and green drinks, the ones with gold flakes and a tiny bar buffet. Spotlights were going on and off, and the music was deafening. Men were dancing on raised platforms, on catwalks, some nearly nude, some in trousers and work boots, and and the floor was crowded. There were a few hobbits, too, none as flamboyant as this pair. Pippin had wandered off back to the bar to dance by himself. 

“We only have what's in our backpacks, and that's not much,” Merry said. “ We've got apples, cheese, some bread, several horns-full of beer, a pannikin of butter, another one of onions; potatoes, although I think we need to eat the potatoes soon, and dry dessert bread, apple and plum. And the gold vodka—that's the best.”

After he'd eaten, drunk some beer, and refused the vodka he felt better. In the letter Bel said it had located some transportation and a ship, and was waiting for him. And Bel thought it could find Taura. 

He told his hosts happily. “This is good news. I think my friend Bel has found a way home for me, and that we can find our other friends.”

“We'd be happy to help you find them—we know what it is to lose friends,” said Merry. Pippin wandered back in and started adjusting the music system in the room, and now bass beats were competing with the still loud noise from the bar. Then he lined up some jello shots. “So retro they're cute, they were going to melt unless I took them. And I got something special for you, Merry, you'll love to see this.” He kissed Merry's ear. After the third shot, and a snort of what Pippin said was pipe-weed, he said thoughtfully, “You know, there's a man, well, she's a very good looking man, probably be happier at Jugs down the road, but she said her name was Belle. She's staying here too.” 

Merry and Miles looked at each other. "He's back again? When were you going to tell me about this, Pippin-you-idiot?” growled Merry, an octave below his usual fluting.

“Sorry.” Pippin shrugged his shoulders. “Do a line here, some black Mollies there, a little white thing nobody could remember--”Merry drew back his fist to strike, but Miles grabbed him.

“By the way, are you two cousins?” 

“Second-cousins-once-removed” muttered Merry, in an often practiced voice. Some things were universal, it seemed. Bel was in a room further back from the bar, but the noise seemed to transmit unabated. It had been lying down with a wet towel over its forehead, and rolled its eyes when Merry and Pippin knocked.

“Oh, no, not you two again! When are you going to learn that no means no, even for halflings like you?”

Merry said, “Sweetie, don't be mean, you know you'll have us before you leave. Anyway, we brought someone who says he's a friend of yours.”

Bel laid its head on the door frame and moaned. “What now, you little brats? I was trying to sleep.”

“It's me,” said Miles, and Bel opened its eyes and hugged him. Merry and Pippin frowned.

“God, get me away from this place! I've been here a month, because I found out that you were probably caught in an unstable wormhole. I think somebody created them, but they're old and may be collapsing. Taura and I kept arguing about when to leave every day. The noise here is non-stop. They do day shows here, which aren't bad, but when you've seen every trick, it's ridiculous. And little beasts keep following you around making horrible suggestions!” It glared at the hobbits. Merry and Pippen flounced and pouted.

“I'll go get Taura, she's up one floor. We've got to walk a few miles.” It was barely a minute bringing down the huge Dendarii soldier, who greeted Miles enthusiastically. 

“Ahhhh! screamed Pippin, “It's the lady orc!”

Taura growled. “And it's the precious babies—why?”

“They helped me find you,” Miles said. “I don't have any luggage, so let's go.” As the trio left the bar, Miles noticed the hobbits' sad puppy eyes. Either they were really bad at mascara or they were really crying.

“Here,” he said spontaneously, “Take this, and he pulled out the money clip he'd had in a pocket. The bills weren't useful, but the clip was gold. 

“Taura? How about two of your little knives?"

“You have no idea...Okay.”

Bel shook its head. “I'm tapped out. We've got to get to Tom's.”

Miles waved goodby to Merry and Pippin, who seemed to be supporting each other, or starting to fight again.

“Tom?” said Miles.

“Oh, yes, haven't had time to tell you. They call these tiny personnel evacuation boats “swan ships,” supposedly “made by elves,” but the wings retract and there's a pop-up canopy. This crazy loon Tom has one, I don't know how he got it. He's supposedly the local drug dealer, but I think he acts that way to make people leave him alone. The swan ship can build up speed along the river, which he apparently controls. I will be so happy to get back to a world that runs on science, not magic!” 

After they'd taken the hidden boat, converted it to space use, and were punching up and out to space, Miles asked Bel,

“So what was going on with you and the hobbits? They seem a little—flamboyant, but I didn't think you cared about that.”

“Nothing's the matter if you don't mind underage grifters following you everywhere!” 

“I thought they came down here once a month. From their mushroom farm?”

Bel and Taura laughed. “Oh, that's what the going story is? They may have worked on a mushroom farm for one day, but no. They've been working their way along the south road, staying in inns, bars—gay bars if they can find them, they do that effete—“just an innocent” act very well.

“I've been all over the countryside trying to find a ship, some way to go home, and I've run into them many times. I caught them once out in a farmer's bar, being two little hobbits who'd lost their parents, and needed some affection, plus whatever the farmer's wife would give them, and a little change to get to their aunt, god bless you. Once it was two performers who were in between jobs, and could they do a little juggling and jig here, 'please gracious folks.' Another time, and you won't believe this, they got four of the little monsters together, and made up this story about they were called to go down south to fight some unknown evil. Everyone pitched in there, and helped them fill their saddle bags. “THEY'RE the unknown evil, and nobody else seems to realize it! When anybody asks them how old they are, and I've heard several here do it, it's always that they're thirty-three.” 

“They didn't look that old,” frowned Miles.

“They live a long time. Do you know what the age of consent is for hobbits?”

“I'm thinking I could guess.”

“Yes. It's like all over the galaxy, “Oh, yes, I'm eighteen.” I stopped them one time when they were playing the shell game with some really poor peasants. They've even gotten some old professor from a university interested in them, thinks they're a wonderful “unspoiled race.” They've pulled the wool over his eyes. Then they found out that this was my base of operations, and since then they've followed me relentlessly. They've put notes under my door, showed up with bottles of liquor, happened to “lose” their shirt straps in front of me, gotten into my room several times, looking very comfortable—in next to nothing. I told them I'd tell old Butterbur if they didn't quit it. They recited poetry and told me stories while I was eating, and sang really tearful songs to the drunks in the day, getting tips. I couldn't leave because I found the vortex it seemed most likely that you'd been dumped into. I don't think they were ever attracted to me, but they pestered me day and night.” 

Miles grinned. “Bel, I've never seen you at a loss in any—personal situation. You're telling me that two kids less than my height got the better of you.” 

Bel was incensed now and more vitriolic than Miles had ever seen it.

“They're not kids! They are horrible, horrible hobbits! Never have I seen any race of people so consistently annoying in my whole life! In a little hole lived a hobbit and I wish they'd stayed there. I don't ever want to hear about them again. Get me out of here!” The swan boat pushed out farther into space.


End file.
